


Faded Away

by gethbecomesher



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fen'Harel - Freeform, Post-Trespasser, Trespasser - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gethbecomesher/pseuds/gethbecomesher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Trespasser. Closing the gap between the end of the conversation with Solas and the next appearance in front of the council. An alternate last goodbye with Solas. After he leaves, the Inquisitor's squad find her and bring her back to the Winter Palace. She reflects on her many losses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faded Away

“The anchor, it’s getting worse,” said Allara through gritted teeth. Sickly green light flared from her palm as the anchor pulsed once, then twice, making the Inquisitor bite back another scream of pain.

“I know, vhenan,” said Solas. The look in his eyes somehow made Allara’s pain worse. It was pity; he pitied her. Her stomach churned with the realization. She had imagined what it would be like to see him again countless times after his disappearance. The way she played this scene in her head, it was romantic, passionate, and desperate. They were two lovers separated by circumstances beyond their control, and their reunion would be blissful and sweet. This was not how is was supposed to go. This was wrong. She wasn’t sure if he was even the same person anymore. This was Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. The wolf of legend, harellan, the bane of her people. The legends were inaccurate, her people were wrong. What else had she believed that was now nothing more than a tall tale? Their love was one of mutual respect. Could he respect her now? Did she even know enough about him to truly love him, or did she love an illusion? Did he think her foolish? Was that the reason for the pity in his eyes? She felt as if a fist made of ice had a death grip on her heart.

“We are running out of time.” His voice was quiet; matter of fact. He knelt, his sad eyes looking into hers. “The anchor will eventually kill you.” Again with the matter of fact tone, Allara thought. There was a time when he had shouted at her for being careless in the field. He had been worried that she would hurt herself by running into the action or not taking cover properly. Had it been so long ago? 

She looked up at him as he gazed down at her. He was so distant. It seemed to her that he was already mourning her death, as if her fate were etched in stone. He would tear down the veil and destroy the world that he had inadvertently created. Her world. He wanted to save the elves of old, but what of her people? Did they not deserve life? Had they not fought for their right to exist on multiple fronts for thousands of years? After all she had done to change the fate of her world, all that he had helped her to achieve with the Inquisition, she would not just let him dictate her fate. She couldn’t. 

Corypheus had aspired to take the seat of the Maker, to rule as a god over creation. Allara was horrified, but she couldn’t reason that Solas’ goals were much different. He wanted to take it upon himself to change everything, to try and right his ancient mistake, and he believed that his purpose was just. Of course he did. She could tell he felt for her, but that wasn’t good enough. She was a fighter, and Solas himself had shown her what it meant to stand in the face of impossible odds and overcome them. So what was he doing? Did he actually expect her to go down without a fight? The pain radiating from her palm seemed to take over more and more of her body as it grew in intensity. It made her stomach heave, but she swallowed hard, determined to keep control of herself. 

“If I live, I’m coming to stop you,” she managed to force the words through her teeth before gasping as the anchor flared again, making Allara feel as if its magic were threatening to tear the flesh from her bones. 

“I know,” said Solas. His eyes bore into hers as he cradled her face in his hands. Allara pressed her cheek to his palm, wanting so badly to feel close to him again. Just one more time. He ran his thumb over her cheekbone, brushing away a stream of hot tears and pressed his lips to hers. She choked back a sob and kissed him back forcefully, winding her good hand into the fur collar of his coat and pulling him close. He groaned at her touch and mingled his long fingers with her hair. She felt the muscles in his jaw twitch and it sent a profound pang of sadness through her. The smell and taste of him was so familiar and yet somehow changed. She pulled away and it made her heart ache that he hesitated to break the kiss. 

She blinked hard, feeling more tears track down her cheeks. The anchor throbbed and she clutched her fist to her chest, rocking over it and waiting for the pain to ebb. She felt his cool touch on the back of her angry, blazing, marked hand and the excruciating sensation calmed slightly. His eyes blazed bright white and her arm froze from fingertip to elbow like it had been petrified. Allara blinked in shock and stared up at him. His face was a mask of sorrow, and his chin quivered ever so slightly before he spoke. “I’m sorry,” whispered Solas. He stood. Allara was numb, from shock or magic she could not tell. Her arm was frozen and immobile. She was afraid to touch it for fear the pain would come back. “I will never forget you.” The words washed over her and settled like bricks in the pit of her stomach. He turned slowly away, grief etched in every line of his face. Her words were trapped in her throat. He was leaving. She watched him walk away from her, closing the distance between her and the shimmering eluvian. He hesitated just for a moment before stepping through, clenching his fist as if he were steeling himself for the reality of his choice. And then he was gone. 

She stared after him, watching as the glistening surface of the eluvian turned back into what could be mistaken for an ordinary mirror. He had shut down the passage; there was no going after him. It was a few minutes after that before she was finally able to move, and when she did, the pain blazed back to life with a vengeance in her marked palm. She held her hand away from her, hoping that would dull it, localize it, anything. It stabbed and radiated throughout her body. What had been numb now burned and blazed. Allara swore she could smell her own flesh charring. She screamed, rising slowly to her feet to try and get back through the eluvian she had come through to get to Solas. She made it a handful of steps before she collapsed, her whole body seizing in the dirt. The pain in her hand threatened her consciousness and she groaned and gasped, trying to keep awake. She was afraid of what would happen if she passed out. 

Shouting came from behind her some time later. Whether it was minutes or hours, she couldn’t tell. “I see her, the Inquisitor is over here!” boomed Thom Rainier’s deep voice. Allara made a weak attempt to call out to him. She had screamed her throat raw as evidenced by the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. He stood over her seconds later, wearing an expression of concern and fear so strong that Allara knew she must have looked as bad as she felt. “My lady, what’s happened?” he breathed. 

“The anchor -” she managed to spit out. Rainier’s dark eyes traveled down to the anchor that had dulled considerably since the last time he saw it. 

“Dorian!” he called. The mage appeared at his side instantly. 

“Oh, my friend,” said Dorian, his voice rasping. He took Allara’s marked hand in his and her eyes rolled back in pain. The hand was still glowing a dull green, but what had been living flesh had turned charcoal black from her fingertips to the top of her wrist. It flaked and crumbled at Dorian’s touch.

“Do something!” shouted Rainier. Allara, as out of it as she was, could even hear the helplessness in his voice. She could do little more than concentrate on breathing, sucking in raspy gulps of air to keep conscious.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before! I don’t know how to counteract it!” Panicked, he tore through the pockets of his robes, inspecting several different shapes and sizes of potion bottles and phials. 

“Oh god, it’s spreading,” said Sera, from behind the pair. She limped up to the Inquisitor, took a long look at her dying magical hand, then turned around and vomited. 

“It is,” said Dorian. The necrotic flesh was traveling up to her forearm slowly. Dorian could only see it taking over her whole body. The thought temporarily paralyzed him. He shook himself out of it and looked from Allara to Rainier and blinked slowly. “Blackwall - Thom,” he corrected himself. “I can’t reverse this with magic, it’s too unfamiliar, too powerful. We need to stop it from spreading.” Thom looked at Dorian for a long moment, understanding something. His mouth formed a thin, grim line and he shook his head heavily. Allara coughed and writhed in agony.

“Hold her,” was all Thom said. Dorian nodded and pinned Allara’s shoulders to the ground. “Sera!” Thom barked. Sera weakly obliged, holding down Allara’s ankles. Thom stood up and took his axe from its loop in his sword belt. “Forgive me, my lady,” he whispered, before swinging his weapon with a practiced motion, severing the Inquisitor’s arm at the elbow.

 

“She told me what happened,” said Cassandra softly, as she approached the table where Varric, Sera, Cole, Dorian, and Iron Bull sat playing a melancholy game of Wicked Grace. 

“You mean she’s awake?!” said Varric, standing abruptly. Cassandra put a gloved hand on his shoulder and eased him back down to his seat.

“Not now, Varric. She’s - I think we should give her some time,” said Cassandra. Varric nodded, clearing his throat. He glanced down the cavernous, ornate hall at the Winter Palace toward the closed door that led to the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

“Was it Solas?” grunted Thom. Cassandra nodded. “I’ll kill that bastard myself next time I lay hands on him.”

“That - um,” said Cassandra. Sera gave her a quizzical look. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Dorian gasped and stared wide eyed at the end of the hallway. Allara was making her way to them, smiling weakly and leaning on Leliana for support. The rest of the table stood, either out of respect or astonishment. Allara was too thin, and her freckles stood out starkly on her colorless skin. It had been three days since Thom, Dorian and Sera had burst back through the eluvian into the Winter Palace, carrying the Inquisitor’s limp, maimed body with them. The magical mirror’s life had faded as soon as they had passed through it. The Orlesians had insisted that the Inquisition remain to care for their Inquisitor there, as she was far too fragile to travel. So they stayed, all of them. There were more than enough rooms, but Allara’s friends found cots and bedrolls in the servants quarters and set up camp outside the makeshift infirmary that housed their friend.

The surgeons, mage healers, and of course, her friends kept a constant vigil on her. They slept in shifts. Someone was always in her quarters. They all wanted to be sure that when she woke, she wouldn’t be alone. No one wanted to admit the actual danger she was in. No one could bring themselves to talk about what would happen if she didn’t make it. Yet here she was. Sera couldn’t take her eyes off the rolled up sleeve that covered the end of Allara’s arm. Varric saw Sera’s gaze travel and he chuckled to himself. “Don’t be scared of her, Sera. She’s ‘armless!” said Varric, laughing to himself. His joke landed with a thud. “What? Are we not laughing about this yet?” Seconds later, Sera exploded in giggles and several others chuckled darkly around her.

“Welcome to the club, Boss,” said Bull. He winked and waved his maimed hand at her. She nodded at him. Cole quietly reached out to touch the end of Allara’s sleeve.

“It’s okay Cole. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said. 

“Not on the outside,” he replied. He looked at her, his eyes intense on hers. She broke the gaze with a cough. Allara looked around, smiling lopsidedly at the scene. She expected something like this when Cassandra had told her what they’d been up to, and seeing it soothed her aching heart. She was still physically weak, and haunted by the shadows she saw in the Fade while she was asleep, but the support of her friends was what drove her to shove the concerned nurses out of the way and stumble out of bed. She cleared her throat and looked around the low table.

“Gather the rest of our party,” she said. She steadied herself with her remaining hand on Leliana’s shoulder. “We have a lot to discuss.”


End file.
